


All Static, No Noise

by juliasets



Category: Supernatural
Genre: American Sign Language, Deaf Character, Episode: s15e07 Last Call, Gen, Season/Series 15, Unrequited Crush, bunker margaritas, we'll find out tonight!, will this get immediately jossed?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21772363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliasets/pseuds/juliasets
Summary: Set during 15x07 ("Last Call"). Sam and Eileen drink margaritas in between research binges and she decides to take her shot.
Relationships: Eileen Leahy & Sam Winchester, One-sided Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 25
Kudos: 49





	All Static, No Noise

**Author's Note:**

> My attempt at making some sense of Eileen in Season 15.
> 
> Thank you to quickreaver for the last-minute beta as I try to finish this under the wire!

Eileen considers herself good at research, but the texts in the Men of Letters bunker are conspiring to punish her for her hubris. She’s pretty sure the ones written by actual Men of Letters are intentionally obtuse, and the rest are in dead languages.

She glances up at Sam. Sam, who is calmly reading through a text in Aramaic like it’s Stephen King. Sam, who’s been researching for hours without complaint.

The wooden chair is unforgiving beneath her. At least when she used to hunt by herself she had a lumpy motel bed to read on. The Winchesters have lived here for years and don’t have so much as a couch?

For all that she wants to tough it out, there’s no shame in not being able to keep up with Sam on a research bender. “You guys have food in here, right?”

Sam’s head jerks up, like he’d forgotten she was there. What a way to make a girl feel loved. His smile goes a long way toward smoothing any ruffled feathers—she’s so screwed. “Yeah, Dean keeps the kitchen fully stocked.”

Sam finds some ground beef and they set about making tacos. He disappears halfway through to fetch his brother but returns alone, a heavy wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“Got anything to drink?” she asks, using the thumb-and-forefinger sign for booze. She’s been incorporating more signs since she came back. Sam’s a quick study.

“Uh, water. Might have some milk we use for cooking.” He turns toward the fridge.

“No, Sam,” she says, hand on his elbow, turning him back toward her. “Not ‘drink.’” She uses her whole hand this time. “ _‘Drink_.’” She draws it out, switching back to the booze sign.

His mouth quirks up as he catches on. “Dean has some half-decent whiskey.”

It might be a betrayal of her Irish heritage, but her nose scrunches up. “Whiskey? With tacos?”

Sam rummages through a cabinet and comes up with a bottle of Cuervo.

She gives him two thumbs up: “Awesome.”

  


* * *

  


Dean finally shows the next morning. Sam figured that food would rouse him when their impromptu margarita party hadn’t. She’d done her best to take his mind off his worries, but it’s hard to say she was successful. When they swapped hunting stories he made her laugh with Dean’s antics. Later, when the margarita mix ran out and the conversation grew serious over shots, he confessed his concerns about his brother.

Sam’s good in the kitchen, confident as he stirs the scrambled eggs and plates the bacon. Despite his skill, apparently Dean does most of the cooking for them. Breakfast foods are Dean’s favorite, Sam tells her. His smile is the brightest thing in the room.

But Dean isn’t as enamored of their feast as Sam predicted. Sam chases him out of the kitchen, leaving her surrounded by a feast that’s entirely too much for two people to eat, even if they weren’t hungover.

When he returns to the kitchen, he’s alone again.

She fixes them both a plate and they eat without talking. Sam picks at his eggs, but leaves the bacon completely untouched. He’d been in good spirits when they were cooking breakfast. Maybe the hangover is finally hitting him. Scrambled eggs aren’t her favorite, but these are fluffy and she doesn’t want to bother Sam so she chokes them down, hoping her uneasy stomach will cooperate. The bacon is crisped to perfection and that goes down smoother.

Sam insists they get back to the research once they’re done. It’s not immediately clear what they’re supposed to be looking for. The existence of capital-G-God is, as far as she can tell, still privileged information. Is there really any chance the Men of Letters have a spell or artifact that could make any difference?

In her brief friendship with the Winchesters, they’ve gone up against monsters she could only imagine in her nightmares, including the Devil himself. Maybe hunting God doesn’t seem so impossible to the Winchesters. Most of her life she’d only tangled with banshees. It’s not as if they’re easy—she’d run into plenty of idiotic hunters who’d stumbled onto the same hunt without so much as a gold knife—but here she’s way out of her league.

After she'd finally killed the banshee who murdered her parents, she floundered. It had been her life’s work. Helping Sam had given her purpose again. She was good at research, good at the legwork and grind it took to unearth a lead on a hunt. As they slowly involved her more, it felt empowering to take on monsters she’d never dreamed of facing.

Until it got her killed.

She glances up from the thick tome she’s been blankly staring at. Like yesterday, Sam is single-minded in his research efforts. There’s something undeniably attractive about the intensity of his focus. She just wishes it was directed at something other than the yellowing pages of a book.

He catches her staring.

“My brain is just… melting,” she admits.

“Same,” Sam signs, with a bit of a self-deprecating grin.

If there’s one thing Hell taught her, it’s that life on Earth is short. “I need a break, and so do you. Why don’t we do something… fun?”

“Ideas?” Sam signs.

She shouldn’t be charmed, but he’s so earnest in his obliviousness

“Maybe, a few…”

She can see when it registers, his smile fading into something more serious. He looks down and she follows his gaze as he rests his hand on hers. The touch is innocent, but the size and strength in his hands sends a little thrill through her. Her eyes again meet Sam’s.

Naturally, that’s when the bunker door opens.

  


* * *

  


Castiel leaves with Sergei, probably to put him back under whatever rock Castiel found him under. He apologized to Sam before he went, but Sam just waved it off a little too easily for her tastes. It’s not as if Eileen had high expectations for meeting her first angel, but she was disappointed with how cavalier they both seemed to be with Sam’s life. She’s seen what comes after this world; she knows what’s at stake.

Sam is resting on the antique hospital bed. For lack of anything better to do, she’s warmed up some soup for him. Whatever messy soul-wound he’s suffering probably isn’t comparable to a stuffy nose, but this is about the extent of her skills in the kitchen, so soup it is.

She shakes Sam’s shoulder and he starts awake. There are bags under his eyes and she wonders if she shouldn’t have let him sleep. When was the last time he slept? Certainly not last night. Clearly being passed out and dying hadn’t counted.

It’s too late now. “Made some soup,” she says.

He smiles, but it’s just polite, not honest. She rolls the tray over so he can eat. He stirs the broth, staring into the bowl pensively.

“You okay?” she asks.

He looks up, tries another smile. “Yeah,” he says. “Just thinking.” He runs his index finger in a circle on his temple.

“About Chuck?” She uses the sign for ‘God’ with her hand cupped in a letter ‘c’, the shorthand they created.

Sam nods.

She sits next to him on the thin mattress. “Maybe you need to take your mind off of it.” She nudges him with her shoulder.

She’s good at reading facial expressions, picking up on small cues. It’s necessary, but like lip-reading it’s not an exact science. She’d seen the hesitation on Sam’s face the moment before Castiel interrupted earlier that day, but told herself that it could have easily been something else.

Now there’s no mistaking it.

He sets the spoon down carefully beside his bowl. She can tell he wants to avoid eye contact, but Sam’s always been considerate about facing her when he talks, so he turns toward her now. “With everything that’s going on,” his hands sweep in front of him: _everything ,_ “it wouldn’t be fair.” He runs the tips of the fingers on each hand into each other, his palms perpendicular and facing. She doesn’t think she taught him that sign, so he must be studying on his own.

“It could just be fun,” she suggests.

He rubs his fist in a circle against his chest and the look on his face breaks her heart.

She should be upset, angry, but she finds that she can’t. Instead she takes his hand and moves his thumb to rest against the side of his fist, fixing the sign. He tries on a sheepish grin; it’s not the first time she’s corrected him on this one. Whatever else has gone wrong between them, whatever she’s misread in the flirting she’d imagined, at least she hasn’t ruined this.

She’d always been the ‘love them and leave them’ type, mostly out of necessity. Civilians didn’t understand the life and hunters weren’t the kind to settle down. She could imagine something else with Sam, but if there’s one thing she trusts it’s that he’s being honest with her now.

She can live without this, she knows that. Sam and her would have been fun, could have maybe been something more than that, but she’ll get over it. But she thought it might have helped Sam forget his burdens, at least for a little while.

Sam turns towards the hall and whatever he hears gives them enough warning to separate awkwardly. She expects Cas, but instead Dean storms through the doorway.

“Sam!”

She moves aside and Dean fills in the gap, looming over his still-seated brother. He rests a hand where Sam’s shoulder and neck meet, thumb brushing against Sam’s jaw. Dean says something, but he’s facing away from her so she misses it. She does catch Sam’s response: “I’m fine.”

Dean obviously doesn’t take his word for it and goes to peel Sam’s shirt away from his shoulder, checking on the wound. Sam rolls his eyes, but his expression is fond.

When Dean’s sure that the wound is as okay as it’s going to get, he swats Sam upside the head, though she still misses whatever frustrated tirade accompanies the action.

She starts forward, annoyed. It’s not like Dean’s hurt him with the brotherly swipe, but Sam nearly died and he’s supposed to be resting. She’s used up her last shred of patience and while she can’t take it out on Sam—refuses to be that jealous and petty—she has no compunction about telling Dean off.

She doesn’t get more than a step closer before Sam grins. He hasn’t smiled like that since yesterday, no matter her efforts.

_Oh_ , she thinks.

She’d been warned about getting caught up with the Winchesters. It’s true they’re amazing hunters, everyone said, but they’re selfish when the chips are down. She hadn’t listened. Sam never seemed like that to her. If anything, Sam always seemed a little too giving, a little too willing to sacrifice himself for the world. It’s part of why she wanted to protect him, back before she died.

She thinks she gets it now. Selfish isn’t quite the right word, but she’s not sure any of the languages she knows has a term that fits.

It’s a sign that comes to mind: brother. She taught it to Sam as a single sign, just as he'd used a few days ago, shaky hands both in an L-shape as they came together, telling her to fetch the only person who could save him.

What she hadn’t taught him was that it’s actually a compound of two signs that have been assimilated into one: ‘boy’ and ‘same.’ Boy of the same family: brother. But _same_ might be the only way to explain the Winchesters. Not alike, definitely not, but so close that the lines between them blur.

She blew a whole day trying to make Sam smile and all Dean had to do was show up.

All those hunters may have been jerks, but they weren’t wrong.

Helping the Winchesters now might be the only way she can escape literal Hell, but after they’re done she won’t stick around. The bunker has halls full of rooms, but there’s no space for her here.


End file.
